


Mind Games

by rehliamonster



Category: Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Consent Issues, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Domestic Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gaslighting, Humans as Slaves, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mutual Abuse, NOT a kink fic, No happy end, Rape, Reader is a dangerous manipulator, Reader-Insert, Unhealthy Relationships, Vent story, Worldbuilding, disturbing sexual themes, everyone is abusive, papyrus is abusive, reader is abusive, sans is abusive, this is not a happy story, you are the villain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9210488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehliamonster/pseuds/rehliamonster
Summary: Even without the collar proclaiming it, it was clear you were his. The many bruises and marks he left on his body left no doubt, not to mention the invisible bruises on your soul from where he plays with your mind. But then there are the other bruises, the ones he could never have seen coming, the ones on his own soul.Because mind games? Are something that two can play.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is a vent story. As such it contains upsetting themes. Please mind the tags and warnings and check them regularly before reading. If you need more tags to be added, please tell me. 
> 
> I probably won't reply to comments or questions about this story, I just need something to vent my negative feelings into. 
> 
> Updates will be infrequent and maybe short.

The concrete feels cool and rough underneath your feet. You pull your legs closer to your upper body and wrap your hands around the stiff toes, trying to preserve what little warmth you have. It’s not exactly cold in the compound, but it isn’t warm either, the temperature set exactly to be barely tolerable for the humans in it. All of your body heat combined warms the place somewhat, but even so, it’s not warm enough to be comfortable. You can hear people shivering and crying. You’ve already given up on that. It doesn’t help and it’s a waste of energy. If you want to pull through this, you have to conserve everything you have. And you definitely want to pull through this. 

There’s a loud clanging sound as the heavy metal door to the compound opens, followed by the shuffle of many feet walking in. They’re weirdly distorted by the distance and the odd, hollow echoing of the corridors with their cells.

“Here’s where we keep the healthier ones,” you hear the bland, egalitarian voice of the overseer. The shuffling repeats, and you try to concentrate on the sound, seeing if you can figure out how many there are over the distortion. There’s at least three, you think, maybe even as many as six, including the overseer. Something special, then. Groups are rare; most of the time when someone comes to the compound to pick themselves a human, it’s just them. A group could be many things: a family choosing their new companions together, friends who want something matching, a business owner picking new workers. In any case, groups meant multiple picks. Several humans would leave the compound tonight. 

“S-show me that one,” a new voice says, high-pitched and nasal. You wonder about the slight stutter in it, what it might mean.

“Faces to the wall,” the overseer says, bored, and you hear the humans comply. 

A cell door is opened, the heavy wire of the chain-link clattering against the wall. The human is dragged out with a sob, they must be struggling, for there is shuffling and then a sharp slap that rings through the stale air of the compound. The human continues sobbing, but apparently ceases to struggle. 

For a while there is silence. You know that the human is most likely being prodded and felt up, arms and legs made to stretch to see the muscles and if there are problems with the joints and movement. Standard procedure. 

“Open your mouth,” the nasal voice says. Also standard procedure. Good teeth are important. You are given herbs to chew once a day to keep them clean; the overseer takes no chances when it comes to things that might reduce the profit on his operation. Which unfortunately also means he keeps things cheap. You would kill for a toothbrush.

There is another, louder sob, almost a cry. 

“Green,” comes the comment from the nasal voice. You’re beginning to think it might be a female one, though you’re not completely sure yet. The others haven’t spoken so far and you’re wondering why. Them being family or friends are possibilities you already ruled out. The nasal voice is too clinical for that. But even business owners accompanied by their employees normally have more of a discussion going on, asking for opinions, or the employees offer commentary on how a human might fit their business. This complete lack of conversation is unsettling. It gives you nothing to work with, no insight into whether or not you should be preparing yourself to be picked up or not, if you should encourage a pick up or not. You don’t like that. You need information.

“We’ll take this one,” the nasal voice finally states. You hear the overseer shoving the human back into their cell, the clatter of the closing door, the scratch of a pen on paper as the overseer writes down the number. Definitely a group order then. The overseer will write a list, the list will be handed to the assistants once the inspection is over and all picks have been made, and the assistants will prepare the humans, chain them up and deliver them as a group to leave with their new owners. Efficient. Standard procedure. 

You keep listening as the sounds repeat, the nasal voice picking out humans, rejecting others, completely emotionless and uncaring. The others remain silent, although you can hear one of them starting to shuffle after a while. They must be bored. You wonder why they don’t speak up if they are. The nasal voice is clearly some sort of spokesperson or leader; maybe the others are there to guard them. It would fit what you’ve heard so far. The shuffling one is an outlier though, no guard would be so unprofessional, you think. Maybe they’re a relative. Why don’t they speak? Maybe they’re mute. 

The theories run through your head at breakneck speed while the noises slowly move closer to your cell. You glance at your cellmates, four women ranging from twenty to forty in age. Two are asleep, one is nervously biting her nails, pacing, the last one is sitting opposite you facing the wall. She hasn’t moved in several hours, but then neither have you. You’re not sure if she’s awake. 

There’s movement in your peripheral vision and you glance through your hair. There are four of them coming into view one after another as the overseer leads them: a small, fat, orange creature that vaguely reminds you of a dinosaur wearing pleated trousers, a turtleneck and a labcoat; a tall, imposing figure covered entirely in spiky black armour that is maybe vaguely human shaped; another tall, imposing figure covered in spiky black armour and red leather boots and gloves, that is definitely human shaped as there is an angry looking skull exposed at the top; and finally… a smaller humanoid figure, also with a skull for a head, dressed in basketball shorts and a thick jacket with a fluffy hood, with a red shirt underneath. You can see the leg bones between the shorts and the shoes, thicker than human ones and stark white. A strange group of monsters, you think. You were right about the guard theory though, and maybe about the bored relative one? Though you now think it’s more likely that the two skeletal ones are related. An assistant, maybe? 

The orange dinosaur begins to look at the humans in the cage opposite yours and demands to see one, the nasal, stuttering voice belongs to it. Its armored guards take position next to it, one looking forwards, one backwards, their eyes continuously scanning the surroundings. Efficient and professional. The small monster with the skull looks around too, but much more casually, shuffling back and forth on his scuffed sneakers. It turns eventually as the dinosaur inspects another human after the first doesn’t meet its specifications. 

Your eyes meet through where you peek out under your hair. Thin, red pinpricks of light resting in the large, gaping black eye sockets of a humanoid skull. They crinkle as the mouth below them stretches into an even wider smile than before, exposing rows of thick, razor-sharp teeth. One is golden, on the left. The monsters’ left. It’s an unsettling smile, but you’re too fascinated by how malleable the skull appears to be to care.

“see somethin’ nice, kiddo?” You flinch slightly at the voice, deep and gruff, gravelly. Definitely a male voice. There’s an accent in it that you can’t quite place.

“Sorry.” Your voice is a whisper that’s barely there and you avert your eyes, just in case. You’re not too sure what to think yet. 

“heh.” His laugh is hoarse. “no need to be shy. was feelin’ a bit bonely over here anyway.” Was that a pun? It sounds friendly enough. You allow yourself a small smile.

You take a moment before you dare to glance back. He’s still grinning at you. Behind him, the taller skeleton has turned towards you, a displeased frown on its skull. You stare at it for a second with your smile slowly vanishing and then you recognise it - him.

Papyrus, head of the Royal Guard of King Asgore, and his right-hand man. He had been everywhere on television together with the King, back when the war started and the monsters had demanded surrender. You wonder if his position has changed in the meantime, why he is here without his King. His voice drags you out of your musings.

“Sans, what are you doing? And you, human! Cease your staring at once,” he snaps loudly, his warbling, scratchy voice and distinct enunciation a striking contrast to that of the smaller skeleton. You avert your gaze quickly once more. 

“she recognised ya,” you hear the small skeleton say and you freeze. How does he know? “musta been why she stared.”

“Many people recognise me,” Papyrus declares in a haughty tone. He appears as if he wants to say more, but then turns back to observe the dinosaur, who has finished surveying the humans in the opposite cell. It crosses over to yours and from the front you can now see that this monster must be female. She carefully looks over you and the other women, pausing on each of you for a moment, then she moves on without comment, falling into step next to the overseer with the guards trailing behind her. 

The small skeleton stays where it is. Sans. You can feel his eyes on you. He crouches in front of the chain-link fence that separates your cell from the corridor, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“show me your face.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you look up, moving not only your eyes but your entire head this time. The strands of your hair part, although a few of them cling to your face. They’re greasy. Once a week, the overseer comes with a hose and douses his humans with lukewarm water through the fence. It’s enough to keep the worst dirt away, but it’s not a high standard of hygiene, and it shows. 

You feel naked in front of him as his eyes bore into yours. Granted, you are naked, but this is different, you feel that by exposing your face to him, you’re exposing yourself to a greater degree than you’re comfortable with. It makes you feel unsettled and scared.

“heh. pretty little thing, aren’tcha. nice cheekbones.”

Your face flushes red and you lower your head, letting your hair fall back over your face. Concealment. He thinks you’re pretty. He is in some way connected, maybe related, to Papyrus, who is or was the right hand of the King of all monsters. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for. You’re unlikely to get a better opportunity than this one.

“ey, i told ya, no need to be shy, dollface.”

He seems to have a penchant for nicknames. This one makes you blush more. Good. You look back up. He’s still grinning, it seems to be his default expression. Well. He is a skeleton. 

“that’s a thinkin’ face if i’ve ever seen one. wonder what’s that about.”

Your eyes widen fractionally. He’s good at reading faces, better than any other monster you’ve ever met. It took you a short while to learn monster expressions as well as human ones, but your years of practice at reading faces had helped master the skill. Monsters didn’t seem to be interested in doing the same at all, not even a bit. Why did he?

“surprised?” 

“Yes,” you allow yourself to whisper. Your voice doesn’t have much substance to it. But you can tell even more from a voice than from a face, and you need him to hear you’re honest, you need to give him an explanation for your thoughtful, calculated expression that he will know is true. “Most monsters can’t tell. They don’t bother.” There is no accusation in your voice, just fact.

He studies your face with his never changing, lazy, sharp-toothed grin. The silence between your holds and grows awkward. You’re uncomfortable. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say after all. Worry. Discomfort. Questions. You imagine how he picks these up from your expression and wonder how much more he can see. How good is he? How far can he go with this? 

“eh. wasn’t important before, yanno?”

It’s a relief to hear him answer your question, to have that silence broken, although it doesn’t answer the real questions you have. You nod carefully, still insecure. 

“welp. better go before my brother gets angry again. nice talkin’ to ya, sweetheart.” You watch him rise from his crouch with a plummeting feeling in your chest. He must have seen something in your expression he didn’t like. You stare at him with desperate disappointment, silently willing him not to go. It was such a good opportunity and you messed it up before you even had the chance to work it. Clumsy. He barely gives you a passing glance as he turns and walks away, following in the direction his group went. You follow him with your eyes as he walks down the corridor, even shifting closer to the fence to keep him in your view for just a bit more. When he’s gone from your sight after turning a corner, you keep staring at the spot where he vanished. 

You can’t believe you messed this up. You thought you were good and you give a bitter huff at that now. That teaches you not to overestimate yourself. One surprise and you drop it. What a disaster. You finally look away from the corridor, catching one of the women staring at you oddly. It’s the one who was pacing all the time, she’s the only one who watched the interaction after all, with the other two still asleep and miss wall-watcher not having turned around for the inspection. You ignore her and curl up on the floor, closing your eyes. This incident exhausted you, the surprise of it and the disappointment. After weeks of sleeping on the concrete floor, it still doesn’t feel any more comfortable, but its hardness doesn’t stop you from sleeping anymore. You slip into unconsciousness after a while. 

You’re woken up by a foot on your shoulder shaking you awake. With no windows and the bare, yellow neon lights of the compound as the only source of light, you have no concept of how long you slept. 

“Get up.” It’s one of the overseers assistants. You look up at him in confusion. His three eyes, dusty green and with no visible pupils or sclera, appear to be focused on a clipboard in front of him. A glance to your sides shows your cellmates lined up with their faces to the wall, another assistant standing outside with magic curled in his fist, just in case you or your cellmates or you decide to be difficult. You don’t plan to be difficult. It doesn’t pay off. 

You rise from the ground as fast as you can with the confusion of sleep still clinging to you. The assistant pushes you out of the cell and the one waiting outside grabs your neck and holds you in front of him. Behind you, you hear the door closing and the scratch of a pen on paper, ticking something off. There is only one situation where this chain of events ever happens. You must have been picked. The flare of hope in your chest is ruthlessly shoved aside. Not yet. Too early for hope. 

You’re led through the compound with your neck still held by the assistant. He doesn’t stop for any others, you’re not chained to a waiting group of humans. A single choice. No hope yet. Not yet.

You’re led to the entrance of the compound. 

The door opens. 

You step through. 

You haven’t seen the clean, minimalistic foyer since you first came here. The chilly, rough concrete is abruptly replaced by plush carpet. The light is softer. It smells nice. It’s warmer. 

You don’t know what to do with so many luxuries all of a sudden. The receptionist looks up from where she’s talking to - Sans. He looks up too, the same lazy grin on his face that he left you with. There is nobody else in the foyer, not even the group he was with earlier. You stare at him with wide eyes, relief and hope finally washing over your body. You curl your toes into the fuzzy carpet with joy, caught in the moment. Then you’re shoved forwards. You almost stumble, but you catch yourself and you walk over to him. You’re roughly the same height. 

“nice meetin’ ya again, sweetcheeks,” he says casually, as if he didn’t just pick you up like a stray dog from the pound. You’re fairly certain the comparison is more than accurate, but you don’t care. You can appreciate the casual approach. It makes you feel like an actual person for a change, which is nice after weeks of being treated like an animal. You’re handed a simple dress, more of a smock really, and a pair of slippers, both of which you gratefully put on. Sans watches with mild interest as you clothe yourself, as do the receptionist and the assistants. You take it in stride. Privacy was a luxury you had lost a long time ago. 

Then Sans pulls out the collar, already fastened with a matching leash, and closes it around your neck. You try not to look too disappointed. It was nice while it lasted, and you knew what you were getting into. He turns from you with a hoarse laugh and tugs on your new leash for you to follow. Trailing behind him, you finally allow yourself a smile. 

Sans, brother of Papyrus, who might still be the right hand of the King. Sans who thinks you’re pretty. He’s dangerous with how well he can apparently read people, read you. But still. Such an opportunity. 

You’ll make the best of it, for sure.


	2. Observation

You’re shivering on the way home. The weather isn’t really warm enough to walk around in a smock and slippers, although you’re grateful you don’t have to go naked. By the time Sans stops in front of a small city house, squeezed in between two larger buildings in what looks like a high-class neighborhood, your muscles are quivering with the cold and with exhaustion. You’ve spent so many weeks in that tiny cell in the compound; you’re no longer used to move so much, to walk so far. Stepping into the warmth of his house is a relief. 

He kicks his sneakers off into a corner and you follow his example and take off your slippers, although you place them carefully out of the way. You're standing in the corner of a large room with high ceilings; the floor plan of the house appears to be quite open. There's a large table in front of you, a chrome surface held up by blackened metal. The chairs are metal frames too, covered in black leather. There's a matching leather couch to your left, opposite a flat screen TV on a low metal sideboard. An open doorway directly across the entrance allows you to look into a sleek, modern kitchen, all chrome and black marble surfaces. The carpet and kitchen tiles are red, the walls white. You're sensing a colour scheme here. At the far left end of the room, a staircase leads up to a second floor separated by a railing, behind which you can see three doors. It's a pretty cosy house for a skeleton, you think, if a bit too modern and cold and impersonal. Not what you expected from Sans at all.

One of the door opens on the second floor, the one on the far left, and out steps Papyrus. Oh. That makes sense. It must have been him who decorated the place - you can easily picture him as the kind of personality who would go for this aesthetic. His eyes snap downwards to you and Sans and his face immediately contorts into a scowl. 

“Sans. I was rather hoping you were joking earlier.” His voice is lowered into an angry growl, the effect of which is broken a bit by the waver in his voice. The hateful expression on his face more than makes up for it, especially as his eyes settle on you. He clearly doesn't want you here.

“i’d never tell a fibula about this, boss.” 

Sans sounds a bit too cheerful for your tastes. You're scared of Papyrus and his clear displeasure at your presence, for several reasons. You're not sure how to react, and you _hate_ having to make guesses like this, but since Sans had been interested and friendly when you were cowering and shy on the floor of your cell in the compound, you decide that it's okay to show your fear. You hunch up your shoulders and shift your weight from one foot to the other, effectively hiding half of your body behind Sans. The scowl on Papyrus’ face deepens and he walks down the stairs to stop in front of his brother.

“Enough with the puns already! I told you I have no patience for another project of yours! This is the pet rock all over again - “

“it's not gonna be like the pet rock, boss, promise. i'll keep her outta your way.”

Papyrus snorts with disbelief, clearly not convinced. You wonder what happened with the pet rock. Beads of sweat are beginning to collect on Sans’ skull under the scrutinising eyes of his brother. Which isn’t promising, but you're fascinated by it despite the severity of the situation. Finally, something seems to pass between the brothers and the tension in the air dissipates. Papyrus still looks like he was forced to chew on a lemon, but his eyes are slightly less hateful.

“Keep her under control. Out of the way. If she doesn't behave, I'll kill her.”

“sure, boss. i'll make sure she doesn't get under your skin.”

Papyrus turns away with a noise somewhere between disgust and deep annoyance and enters the kitchen. Sans turns back to you and takes you in. Your eyes are wide and every single hair on your body is standing on end. They didn't even look at you while they casually discussed your murder. _Joked_ about it. Sans gives you a wide grin, somewhat wider than his usual one you think, and tugs on your leash for you to follow him upstairs. You feel weak on your legs as you follow him. He leads you to the door in the middle and into the bathroom behind it. It's fairly big for a bathroom, it has a proper bathtub, two sinks and a toilet. You're guessing the latter was already there when they moved in, or that it is for guests rather than the brothers. What would skeletons need a toilet for? Then again, Papyrus seemed like he was about to use the kitchen, so maybe they ate after all. He wouldn't cook for you, that much was clear. Or maybe they were about to have guests. You're pulled back from your thoughts when Sans ties your leash to the doorknob and vanishes outside, only to return a moment later with a large plastic bag, which he hands to you. Then he fixes you with his pinprick eyes, focused and sharp. 

“if i untie the leash, ya won't run, will ya?”

“No.” 

It's the truth. The question is a bit ridiculous anyway. He and his brother have made it rather clear that they have no qualms about offing you the moment you misbehave and you don't want that. Besides, where would you even go? Alone into the city of hateful monsters? Out into the radioactive wilderness? There is literally no place for you to run to. 

“atta girl.”

He opens your collar and slides it off, rolling up the leash around it, and closes the bathroom door. You run a hand over your neck, the collar wasn't tight but it's still a relief to have it off. Sans steps aside to sit on the closed lid of the toilet as if it was a chair. He waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the tub when you don't move. 

“shower time, dollface. water you wadin’ for?”

The smile you give him at the frankly awful pun is more than just a bit insecure, wavering at the edges. He looks quite comfortable sitting there and watching you, obviously not having any intention to leave. You always understood there was a possibility of this when you were brought to the compound, but that doesn't mean it's easy now that it's happening. You were naked earlier. This feels different, alone with him, it's far more intimate and unsettling. 

To calm yourself, you look into the plastic bag he's given you and find shampoo, soap, a simple razor, and bland, cheap clothes still tagged with the labels of a supermarket brand you don't recognise. There's a set of white underwear, though no bra, a shirt and black track pants. You pick out the soap and shampoo bottle together with the razor and set the bag aside for now, placing the items at the edge of the tub. 

Deciding to get over with it quickly, you turn on the water, feel it's temperature - a _warm shower_ , you almost can't believe it - slip out of the smock and step under the spray. It feels heavenly. It feels so, so good, nothing so simple should ever feel this good. You forget about Sans as you lift your face up to the water, feeling it run in rivulets over your skin and through the greasy strands of your hair. You indulge. The shampoo is massaged gently into your hair, with little circling motions that make your scalp tingle and you sigh, quietly. You can feel layers and layers of sticky filth washing away, weeks of improper hygiene coming undone. It’s the ultimate luxury.

The razor comes in and you get rid of all the hair that grew on your legs in the months since life had exploded around you, and the hair of your armpits too for good measure. It’s nice simply because it feels like something from _before_ , when you still had time and mental energy to worry about something so inconsequential as hair removal. You almost continue your shaving, but then leave it at what you’ve removed so far, suddenly remembering again that you're not alone. No need to touch yourself and give Sans a show unless he demands it. You're a bit more shy now that you remembered him as you wash your body with the soap, but it still feels amazing to slowly become clean again. 

A glance snuck over your shoulder shows you that he is watching you very intently. His face isn't leering though, instead his expression is set in the smile that apparently counts as neutral, for him. You're not sure if you find that reassuring or even more disturbing. On one hand, it might mean safety from something really messed up - because he’s a skeleton and oh god, you don’t even want to think about that - but on the other hand, you don’t really know what to do with it. 

You’ve been in the shower for a while now and decide to step out before you overdo it. The brothers might get upset if you waste too much warm water. Sans hands you a towel and you rub yourself dry as quickly and efficiently as possible. The silence is unnerving you, but being watched as you clean yourself is so awkward that you’re reluctant to say anything. You’re grateful when you can finally slip into the cheap supermarket clothes. They smell strange and plasticky, but at least you’re not naked anymore. Sans cuts the tags of with a scissor he’s produced from the pocket of his jacket. You don’t see a brush, so you begin combing your hair out with your fingers. This apparently catches Sans’ interest.

“stop.”

He takes your wrists and deliberately untangles your fingers from your hair, replacing them with his own. His fingers are not as careful as yours and pull on your hair until they hit a snag and yank your entire head back as you yelp. 

“Ow!”

You hear a deep, raspy chuckle from behind you and he repeats the motion. Your scalp hurts and there are tears pricking in the corners of your eyes by the time he's combed out your hair, yanking it all the while. He turns you around and surveys your face once he's done, seemingly amused.

“that was fun. you’re squeaky. squeaky clean, heh.” 

You silently disagree with his assessment of the level of enjoyment here, and you don’t appreciate the pun either, which he must have seen on your face because he barks out a huff of gravelly laughter. 

“now don't go brushin’ me off dollface, but i want ya to grow that out.”

Your hair brushes over your shoulders. It had grown out when you had been out in the wild and then chopped off at the compound and you don’t want it longer than that, but it's no longer your choice, so you nod. There is another small break, the kind that has followed you through every interaction with Sans since he's picked you up. You can see him thinking and suddenly have the impression that despite his show of confidence to his brother earlier, he hasn't actually thought this through at all and isn't quite sure what to do with you now that you're here.

“c’mon.”

He roughly tugs at your wrist and you follow him out of the bathroom and down the stairs. You catch a delicious smell as you approach the table next to the kitchen; you think Papyrus has cooked spaghetti. You almost laugh at the mental image of this menace doing something so mundane as cooking noodles, but you hold yourself back. Papyrus doesn't seem like someone who appreciates laughter much and besides, you wouldn't want to explain your current train of thought. Papyrus comes out of the kitchen with two large plates filled with spaghetti in his hands, which he sets on opposite spaces on the table. Then he turns around and fixes Sans with a stern glare. 

“Your ‘pet’ won't eat with us.”

“aw, c’mon boss, it's dinner entertainment.”

“No humans at my table!”

“fine, she can sit on the floor, that make ya happy?”

“No. But I suppose it will have to suffice.”

“heh, see, another impastable situation averted.”

Papyrus growls. Literally, as if he is a wolf or some other suitable dangerous animal. You would call him a shark, but that comparison is much better suited to Sans, who grins like one as he raises his open hands in a false offering of peace. 

Dinner is a strained, awkward affair. You can't see their faces from where you're sitting on the floor next to Sans feet, but the tension in his leg bones tells you all you need to know. He's wary. Poised. You’ve been given a small bag of potato chips for dinner and you try to eat it as quietly as possible, which of course isn't quiet at all because chips are simply not quiet food, and so the sounds of you crunching away under the table are added to the strained silence in a tableau of absurdism. 

You wonder what exactly happened to make their relationship so strained. 

This is clearly not a new thing for them, the back and forth is too quick, too easy and practised, the tension too settled into them. This has been going on for a long time, years. There is no dinner conversation for you to listen in to from your place under the table and so the incomplete body language of their legs and feet is all you get, for now. You want to see their faces. The surprisingly expressive shifts of their facial bones, that look like they should be rigid but aren't, the little slips and flickers that tell you so much about who they are and what they think. Even if Sans is doing the same to you, which is pretty inconvenient. You need the information if you want to get anywhere - and you do, of course. You don't plan on sitting under a table awkwardly eating chips for the rest of your life. The brothers are clearly well off if the state of their house and the high class furniture is anything to go by, from which you can infer that Papyrus must indeed still be in his position as the royal right hand man. Both the neighborhood and the house look too expensive to be affordable on anything less but a really high position in monster society. 

Your plan, for now, is to observe the brothers as closely as possible for the next couple of days. The tricky thing is that you need to act fast, but at the same time you can’t because you need to manipulate and that needs time and knowledge and a clear goal, none of which you currently have. The goal is, of course, the easiest to figure out, at least partially. You want to be as close to independence and personhood as possible. That doesn’t give you specifics, but it’s still something you can gear your ministrations towards. You can wing the rest on the way - a beloved pet, a friend, hell even a lover. Ew. Ultimately, the specific relationship matters, but not as much as the end goal. You’ll take what you can get. 

Sans kicks you into your side under the table, not hard, but unexpectedly. You squeak and choke on a potato chip. Papyrus growls again while his brother suppresses a chuckle, going by the tremble of his legs. You feel like you’re about to have a bad time.


	3. Baseline

After the strained dinner is finally finished, Sans has the brilliant idea to insist that you do the dishes. Papyrus doesn’t like the idea at first, but relents eventually. They both watch you as you clean up to the best of your ability, being as meticulous as possible. So far, every surface you’ve seen here has been immaculate, which tells you a lot about Papyrus’ standards when it comes to hygiene. You can’t imagine Sans being the one with the penchant for cleanliness. 

Regardless, they both seem pleased when you’re finished. 

Sans beams at his brother, despite Papyrus insisting that he doesn’t trust you to take care of household chores by yourself yet. You watch the discussion quietly. You wouldn’t mind helping out if it means you get to do some things by yourself. Unfortunately, Papyrus puts his foot down. They will not continue the discussion tonight. Sans drags you over to the couch where, after a quick glance at his brother’s frowning face, he forces you to sit down at his feet again. 

They watch the news and for the first time in months you get an update on what’s going on in the world. After you translate the blatant propaganda with the help of what you know from before into something more likely, that is. 

Food production in the city is up, the economy is stabilising. King Asgore, in his godly greatness, has lead monsterkind to prosperity, and is magnanimously distributing the surplus to the poor to ease their struggles. 

Translation: Thanks to the human slaves production costs were low while the output was high, so the food shortages had finally stopped. Now that the upper crust of monster society has regained their comfortable lifestyles, they can afford sharing with those less fortunate.

The King has successfully rounded up another nest of human survivors in the wild, most likely undercover agents scouting for the enemy, scoring a great victory for monsterkind with the arrest of these dangerous terrorists threatening the fragile peace in the aftermath of the war. 

Translation: Asgore found a small group of people dying of radiation sickness, decided they weren’t worth the effort of rounding them up and seeing if they could be put to use as slaves, and had them killed. The human army was already gone before you were captured. 

Radiation levels in the wilderness have not improved, monsters are advised to leave their humans at home should they decide to leave the city for any reason, in order to prevent more slaves from catching the radiation sickness.

Translation… well, that one is probably accurate, actually. 

The programme transitions seamlessly into a show hosted by the robot Mettaton, an actor and show host who seems to have a disturbing penchant for murdering humans live on camera. You feel bile rise in the back of your throat at the graphic images and the screams, but you can only imagine what would happen to you if you were to throw up onto Papyrus’ pristine living room carpet, so you swallow it down and look away. Both skeletons shoot you a contemptuous glare until you look back. You learn to watch the bloody spectacle in silence. 

Papyrus leaves first. After Mettaton’s show is (finally) over, he wordlessly rises from the couch and heads to his room, closing the door with a sharp click that somehow echoes more than if he had thrown it shut. Sans huffs and switches the channel, flicking through the stations for a while, before apparently deciding he has enough. 

“c’mon.”

He drags you up to his room by your wrist. It’s a messy affair, full of clothes and disgusting food wrappers strewn around anywhere. Yeah, Sans is definitely not the one who insists on the cleanliness. That’s all Papyrus. After closing the door behind him, he stands in front of it for a bit, watching you, leaving you wriggling uncomfortably under his stare, wondering what he’s going to get up to. You have a few ideas and you don’t like any of them. 

“kneel.”

Yeah. 

Like that. 

You get down to your knees and watch as Sans steps forwards, his hands on the hem of his basketball shorts. He lowers them and you watch in horrified fascination as his magic coalesces in his groin to form a glowing red penis. It’s pretty wild. Definitely not what you expected from a skeleton. 

He gives you a thoughtful look and shifts from one foot to the other. You don’t dare to do anything without a direct order from him. It wouldn’t fit the shy persona you’ve put on and besides, yuck, you’re not going to do anything you don’t actually have to do. 

“use yer hands.”

You reach up hesitantly and begin stroking him, mentally distancing yourself from the experience. The conjured flesh feels oddly insubstantial under your hands, but at the same time heated and heavy, and slick. You’re a bit surprised he doesn’t seem to want your mouth given how much he could yank your hair with that, but you’re not going to complain. You work him with your hands as best as you can but he still seems bored. 

“turn around.”

You take your hands away and turn, still on your knees, until you’re facing the other side of the room, seeing his messy desk and the mattress on the floor, covered in a ball of wrinkly sheets, piles of socks, and empty mustard packets. 

You flinch when he roughly grabs your hair, yanking you back until your neck is against his legs and his penis. Judging from the slapping noises and the way the ghostly flesh smacks against your neck every now and then, he’s continuing by himself. You can hear his breath deepen, and a small collection of aborted groaning noises. He finishes on your back, the sensation of his come on your skin an oddly cold wetness. 

He’s at least nice enough to wipe most of his cum away with a dirty handkerchief before he puts your collar back on and ties you to his desk, the leash having barely enough give to allow you to sit and lay down on the floor to sleep. After that he turns the lights off and crashes face first onto his mattress and starts snoring barely two minutes after. 

You watch him in the darkness.

Could’ve been better. Could’ve been worse. 

Most importantly though, you can work with this. You only need to find the right angle. Establishing a proper baseline is the most important thing for what you’re about to do. Without information you can’t act - not properly. Guessing and having no clear goal only leads to clumsiness and failure. And since Sans can read you back more than you’re comfortable with, you can’t afford clumsy. You have to be good. Better than ever. 

So over the following week, you observe. 

After the monotonous routine of the compound, it’s difficult to adjust to Sans’ schedule. He works multiple jobs, none of which have regular hours and he often sleeps in. If Papyrus lets him, that is. He will often end up knocking on the door to Sans’ room, yelling about how lazy his brother is and that he should get up. Sans seems simultaneously aggressive and mildly happy about it, which you have trouble understanding at first. 

He will get up and take you with him into the bathroom, where he watches you as you change and get ready for the day. He keeps laughing at you every time you use the toilet. You have even less privacy - and dignity - now than when you were living in the compound. He still insists on being the one to comb your hair, and he still yanks at it. 

Breakfast can go one of two ways. 

One: Papyrus is there. Then it will be similar to that first dinner, tense, silent and awkward, with you sitting at Sans’ feet under the table. He’s feeding you something else but potato chips and chocolate bars only after the second day, prepackaged sandwiches mostly. He doesn’t give you much, commenting on the fact that he likes to feel your bones under your skin. Sometimes he will kick you, the way he did on the first evening. It hurts as one bruise begins to cover the other. 

Two: Papyrus is not there. This happens on the fifth day, and Sans actually allows you to sit at the table. It feels nice because it makes you feel like a person, but even more importantly it gives your side a much needed break to recover from the kicks. He kicks your shins instead, but only once. You can live with that. 

When he leaves for work he locks you in his room, this time without tying you down with your leash. As you noticed the first time you entered it, it’s noticeably shabbier than the rest of the house and rather smelly, with stains and crumbs on the carpet, empty mustard bottles collecting in the corners and socks littering every available surface. Sans never covers the bare mattress on the floor, his bedding always a wrinkled clump at the foot end. You have no idea why he doesn’t try to get more comfortable, as he seems to like his fluffy coat for the comfort it gives. You never really see him without it. He has a desk whose surface isn’t visible under piles of paper, empty wrappers of monster candy, old coffee cups and socks, and a treadmill which he seems to use as a hanger for his coats and shirts. It used to stand in the middle of the room, but he lugged it aside on the second evening after you moved in. He leaves you with nothing to do when he locks you in, so you use your time wisely and snoop. 

First, you do the obvious and search for cameras. You’ve used hidden cameras yourself before in order to obtain blackmail material on people or just for the fun of it, so you know what to look for. He doesn’t seem to have any, even after you take into account that monster technology might be ahead of human technology by now. His carelessness couldn’t be more convenient for you. 

The pockets of his coats and pants on the treadmill are a disgusting landfill of more food wrappers, old chewing gum, sweaty handkerchiefs, scorched dog-treats and the odd gemstone. You can explain the food (he likes unhealthy food), the handkerchief (he tends to get sweaty very easily) and the gemstone (most likely a memento of the underground), but you do wonder about the dog treats. 

You look into the papers on the desk and find them covered in mathematical formulas you don’t understand. Interesting, though not as informative as you’d hoped when you started. 

Not that you expected to find Sans’ diary with all his deepest secrets revealed. 

But something like notes on telephone numbers and errants would have been nice, the little reminders of daily life, threads that you could follow, “call Bob”, “pick up milk”, “meet Steve at the bar”, and so on. The maths only tells you that he’s more intelligent than he lets on, which you already guessed thanks to his face-reading. 

You find a three old sci-fi novels stashed between the head end of his mattress and the wall, all dog eared and with browned, musty smelling paper. They look as if they had gotten wet at some point and then didn’t dry properly. You read them out of sheer boredom, but they barely fill the time for the first two days you’re alone in the room.

And that’s that. 

The rest of the time, every day he leaves you here, you have nothing to do than revise what you know and plot your next moves. You don’t ask him for entertainment - not yet. You’re still acting shy, subdued and frightened while you continue your observations. 

Sans is generally a paradoxon of counteracting layers. 

He sleeps in and takes naps all the time, but works several jobs. He's too lazy to walk up the stairs or reach for the TV remote, but he will use magic for these things like it's nothing even if it makes him sweat. He will tell as many jokes and puns as he can possibly cram into a single conversation without having Papyrus strangle him, but he rarely laughs when he thinks nobody is watching him. You, apparently, don’t count.

He likes to pull at your hair and then pet your head afterwards, giving you pleasure only after he’s hurt you enough to ruin your enjoyment of it. He escalates. When you get used to the pain of him pulling your hair and stop reacting, he pulls harder until you scream again. You learn to give him a visible, audible reaction quickly - but not too quickly, so he won’t see through your ruse. It’s a painful balancing act. 

Despite obviously having the capability and at least some of the inclination, Sans doesn’t try to initiate anything sexual again over the course of the week. You’re not sure why. Sometimes he eyes you when he thinks you can’t see it while you watch him from underneath your hair. The fact that he doesn’t act makes you antsy.

On the fourth day, Sans gives you a necklace as a present, which you do not expect and do not care for, but you feign flattery and a cautious, shy happiness anyway and wear it day and night. He uses it to choke you on the sixth day and rips it apart on the morning of the seventh day. You cry, which he seems to enjoy. You’re getting better at anticipating what reaction he’s going for. Most of the time, Sans hurts you when he’s bored or when he wants to annoy this brother. You keep this in mind. 

Papyrus has little patience for Sans’ antics, but Sans keeps coming back to annoy him anyway, despite the fact that he’s obviously scared of his brother. On the seventh day, Papyrus finally loses it. Sans cracks a particularly tasteless joke at you and suddenly Papyrus snaps, looming over the both of you with magic crackling between the bones of his hands, one fist raised to strike. 

You’re violently thrown aside and crash against the TV table, the hard metal ringing hollow as it digs into your skin. At least it hit your back and not your side. You’re not sure how much more abuse your sides can take. Papyrus looks like he wants to hit Sans, but he doesn’t. Sans has his hands raised in a placating gesture but Papyrus grabs him by the wrist and twists his arm onto his back, just this side of bending it completely out of shape, painful but not actually hurting. That’s more restraint than you expected from him, to be honest. 

Then the screaming starts.

You cower in a corner as Papyrus systematically and brutally picks Sans apart. He rages about how lazy his brother is, how he’s a sweaty, filthy, disgusting slob, how he’s nothing but a waste of space. How his jokes are not funny, he is not quick-witted or amusing, he’s an annoyance to everyone who’s ever met him. How he doesn’t have a single useful connection, nobody who owes him favours or that he has power over in other ways. How the best thing he could do with his life is become a scientist, which is weak and therefore worthless, how he couldn’t even do that right and instead of working as a royal scientist he became a low level sentry and an illegal hot dog seller and fuck knows what else, the ultimate disgrace. How he’s nothing but an embarrassment to Papyrus. Everything Papyrus wanted to distance himself from, Sans has become. How he can’t even take a single hit, can’t fight to save his life. It’s kill or be killed out there and Sans has only survived by hiding behind Papyrus and he _hates_ him for it. 

Sans grin stretches and stretches on his skull, his eyes for once completely devoid of even the smallest pinpricks of light, black and lifeless hollows while he grins in such a wide way it actually looks painful.

And then, after Papyrus has screeched about all of these things he just starts right over and hammers them in by repeating the same sentiment in different words and this goes on for hours until well after midnight. You don't dare to move at all for as long as it lasts and Sans keeps grinning the entire time, breathing deeply, not saying a word. Afterwards Papyrus finally lets go of Sans, letting him drop to the floor like the bag of trash he thinks he is and vanishes into his room. 

Sans picks himself up slowly, drags you into his room, and crashes his fist into your side. You fall to the floor screaming while he kicks every inch of you that he can reach until he’s tired himself out. Then he collars you and ties you to the desk so tightly you have to crouch and hug the wood awkwardly so you won’t choke. You watch him as he collapses onto his mattress and falls asleep. 

Your entire body hurts, bruises are starting to swell on your skin, you’re in a deeply uncomfortable position in which you know you will not get any sleep tonight and you’re still scared shitless of Papyrus. At the same time, you could kiss these two idiots. This has been the most informative day of the _entire week_ , you’ve learned so much that you almost want them to go for another round. It was a painful, but oh so enlightening evening. 

Sans takes a lot from Papyrus. He was not surprised at what happened today - frightened, tense, but not surprised. This has happened before. Sans earns money, he could leave. Or he could at least stay out of the way. Or he could at least stop short at pushing those buttons before it escalates - he’s so good at reading faces that he should be able to do that. Which means this was deliberate. 

Why would Sans want this outcome, being screamed at for hours with his arms twisted painfully on his back? 

You juxtapose it with their normal behaviour - Papyrus, cold and distant, barely speaking, out of the house or in his room most of the time, stiff and drawn to himself. Sans, telling horrible joke after lame pun after unnecessary commentary, filling the silence, always in the kitchen or at the table or on the couch whenever Papyrus is around, reaching out. It reminds you of something and you snatch the thought, draw it in like a fishing line, remembering how you smashed your spoon against your plate as a kid to get your mother's attention and you smile. 

Sans is, on such a deep and visceral level that you’re not sure if he’s aware of it himself, _desperate_ to be loved. 

Well. That clears a few things up for you.


	4. Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things: 
> 
> \- updates will most likely remain sporadic, sorry  
> \- thinking about renaming the fic, but haven't decided yet, I'll warn in an authors note if I go through with it  
> \- I updated the tags and warnings, please consider them carefully going forwards

The eighth day is calm. Peaceful, which says a lot considering who you're now living with. You take your breakfast under the table, careful not to make too much noise when you unpack your cheap supermarket sandwich, while Papyrus and Sans are sitting opposite each other as always. They eat in silence, but their legs don't show any of the tension you saw there every day during the last week. 

The absence of tension - or movement - prevents you from getting a finer read on their mood for now, but the state of calm also means an absence of kicks to your side. Or your whole body, really, because after yesterday there isn’t a single spot on your body that doesn’t feel at least a little bit tender. You count your blessings and welcome the change despite the lack of information. 

Additionally, the relative peace and quiet matches your previous experiences of escalations of violence, so that’s another important piece of information to fit into the puzzle you’ve been forming. A puzzle that you intend to start testing out soon, today if at all possible. 

You don’t want to wait much longer. If you wait for too long, the opportunity for the really effective stuff will likely pass, and that won’t do. The information you’ve been presented with on a silver platter yesterday and the resulting enlightenment about Sans’ psychology have become the basis for a tentative plan. 

If your test works, that’ll be the one you’ll go with. 

You’re pretty surprised when after breakfast, Papyrus leaves the house as always, but Sans stays. Seems like it’s meant to be. You suppress a smile. 

“time to have some fun, dollface, i got the day off today,” Sans tells you with a grin as he pulls you out from underneath the table. 

You glance over at the dishes, which have continued to be your chore throughout the week. After yesterday, you don’t think Papyrus would be happy if they don’t get done, but you also don’t want to make suggestion yourself yet. You have your shy persona and you’re sticking to it for now. 

“ugh,” Sans groans as he follows your eyes. “fine. do those first, then comes the fun.”

You quickly gather up the dishes and the trash from your prepackaged sandwich, and take them to the kitchen, while Sans follows behind you at a leisurely pace. Papyrus still doesn’t trust you to do the dishes by yourself and wants you watched. Sans has been lax about many rules whenever Papyrus was absent during the past week, but this one he does follow. Perhaps he too doesn’t like the idea of you being alone with a bunch of breakable and potentially sharp items. 

Feeling his gaze on your back but without any conversation from him, you’re left to wonder what he has in mind when he says he wants to have fun today. You’re still feeling apprehensive that he hasn’t tried to approach you sexually again after that one brief stint up in his room on the very first day, so this is the first thing you think of. 

Not something you particularly want, but it would fit your purposes for the test. Rather well, actually.

It might even be worth the effort to subtly encourage him, if you can. That’s not an idea you feel very fond of, but the plan you came up with is the one you consider most likely to succeed and it requires this kind of thing. You might just as well get used to the idea. 

Once you’re done with the dishes, Sans pulls you over to the couch. You get to sit next to him instead of the floor since Papyrus isn’t there, which is nice. He’s sitting close to you and you make an effort not to withdraw, staying calm and pliant while he turns on the TV. 

For a while he zaps seemingly aimlessly through the channels, stopping here and there without ever really settling. You appreciate it because whenever you watched during the past week, it was always on Papyrus’ strict schedule. First the news and then Mettaton’s show. The news apparently didn’t have a lot of new stuff to report very often, which isn’t a surprise with all the propaganda, so it got stale soon and didn’t give you a lot of new info. And Mettaton merely murdered some new humans on camera every time. Even though his victims were always in the late stages of their radiation sickness without any hope for recuperation, it never stopped being gruesome. 

Sans’ aimless TV habits allow you to gain an insight into what the programme overall looks like, which is mildly informative. 

The monsters show reruns of some human shows and movies, but they’ve also started their own productions with access to the high-end equipment the humans left behind in the studios. You count and there are almost as many monster productions as human reruns. You don’t doubt that the ratio will flip soon. 

Content wise, it looks like more propaganda from what you can gather, images of the war and the monster’s glorious victory. There are also some snippets showing monsters suffering underground. You have no idea if those are accurate or not. Sans doesn’t react to the footage either way, merely zapping away after a short while of watching. 

The only thing that has already changed completely is the advertising. Here, only monster-made products are shown, by monsters. They’ve taken over production completely and advertise accordingly. That had still been different before were thrown into the compound and left without information and it tells you something about the monster’s progress.

Sans eventually settles on a channel showing cartoons, old stuff about fairies and anthropomorphic animals. 

It’s surprisingly tame and innocent considering his character.

Of course he then ruins it by pulling you into his lap and starting to touch you. You tell yourself it’s a good thing, that this is what you need right now, but you still resent him for it a little. It starts innocently enough, with him petting your hair instead of yanking it, running his hands over your sides. That hurts a bit and you shudder. 

When his hands make their way between your legs, your control over yourself slips and you flinch. 

“shhh, ‘s okay sweetheart,” Sans whispers into your ear, his breath uncomfortably warm and moist against your skin. At least he's not looking you in the face, instead burying his head against your neck. Makes it easier to pretend you're okay with this. “i know i’ve been rough to ya, ‘n i’m sorry okay? i can be real gentle though. i swear. i’ll make this feel good for both of us, yeah?” 

You really doubt that, but you have to be strong now. Since you're trying to act shy still, you can't enthusiastically consent, and since you need this for your plan you also can't deny him outright. Never mind that you're literally his slave and he'd most likely just disregard your no. So you just produce a vague whimper, one that could be embarrassment or fear or arousal more all of those.

“yeah, feels good already, right?” he purrs, rubbing against your crotch. He seems to go with arousal. His breath is already deepening. You hope his rubbing will be enough to make you wet so it won't be too painful. It's not as if he's hot enough to make that happen for you all by himself. The dumb noises from the cartoon in the background sure aren't helping you along.

“you smell nice,” Sans murmurs, speeding up his ministrations between your legs. It starts to feel warm. You don't know if that's arousal or just the friction on the fabric.

Wasn't his cock slimy though? Eh. Good enough probably. 

You make a sigh, something bordering on a moan, to get on with it. 

He falls for it and moves you so you're lying on your back, pulling first your and then his own pants down. At least he's not the romantic type going for full nudity, you're not really keen on his bones aggravating your bruises further. His cock is already summoned, garish red and glowing. You look away, pretending to be ashamed. 

He takes his time entering you and you force your muscles to relax to make it go in easier. 

To his credit, he does seem to try to make sure he doesn't hurt you at least. He's not terribly good at satisfying you, but you suppose it could be way worse. He's staring down at you right now so you keep your face carefully arranged in an expression of unwilling pleasure and embarrassment. 

“you’re so soft. ‘s great how soft you feel,” he groans, moving faster now. 

You wonder if he's going to feel awkward about his words later. They don't fit his usual rough persona. But then you already deduced that he has a softer spot buried underneath all the vile and antagonistic bullshit, even if he doesn’t recognise it himself. Perhaps he won't, thinking that sex talk is different. If he does, you better get ready for some painful punches against your bruises. You doubt you'll be able to pull his strings enough to make him quit that already. This is just a test after all. 

You moan quietly, then move your hand to cover your mouth. 

“shit yeah. ya love this, don'tcha. don't hide. i wanna hear your voice.” Sans pulls your face towards him and shoves his tongue into your mouth, the hard ridges around his teeth moving in a macabre imitation of a kiss. His teeth get in the way and the sharp edges cut your lips. You sob and transform it into a needy whine for more. 

He moans into your mouth and you taste your own blood and the remnants of his unhealthy breakfast. 

“fuck. you’re mine,” he growls as he pulls back for air. “imma make you fucking mine!”

Rage wells up inside you, sickeningly hot and cold at once and so hard to keep off your face. You hate him more for this statement than for what he’s doing to you. How dare he? You don’t belong to anybody. Not to him and not to anyone else. He belongs to _you_. Just as the rest of the world does, he exists for your amusement and advancement. He just doesn’t know it yet. The fucker, you’ll show him what true ownership is like. He won’t know what hit him.

His hip bones are slapping against the tender flesh of your groin, causing you to whimper again. Encouraged by your sounds, he speeds up, trying to kiss you and whisper some bullshit sex talk to you at the same time. That doesn’t really work all that well. You have no idea what he’s trying to say since his words are so slurred. He’s terrible at this. 

You decide that enough is enough and start to contract the muscles of your vagina, squeezing him rhythmically. It feels uncomfortable since he’s so girthy, but it makes him shudder and stutter and cry out pathetically, and the next thing you know, you feel him cum inside you. 

God, finally. 

You wouldn’t have minded him being a premature ejaculator.

While he comes down from his high, twitching with his release and groaning into your neck, you wonder idly if you can get pregnant from him. It seems unlikely with how different monsters and humans are, and you think that if it was possible, you would have heard of at least a few cases by now. 

Shame, really. 

That would have been _prime_ material to leverage against him. Unfortunately it seems as if you’ll have to plan without access to such invaluable assets.

“see? wasn’t that good, eh?” Sans huffs, drawing back to grin down at your with a smug, suggestive expression. 

“I… I don’t…” You interrupt yourself and bite on your lower lip, looking away from him again. Hopefully, the exertion will have caused you to blush at least a little, so your act will be more convincing. You need to look the part of the unwillingly turned on good little girl. Deciding that hiding your face behind your hands would be, while effective at hiding any inconsistencies in your expression, entirely too much, you hunch your shoulders instead, squirming underneath him to convey your discomfort. 

The fact that this causes your vulva to rub against his pubic bone is a complete accident of course. 

His bones feel terrible on your skin. Smooth but porous, and dead. 

The vibrations of his chuckle feel equally uncomfortable resonating through you. He finally decides to show you some mercy and draws back, leaving you to pull up your pants again while he rearranges your own clothes. The wetness in your pants feels gross, sticky and cooling quickly, but you’ll deal with it for now. There are more important things on your agenda. 

Sans is content to go back to watching cartoons, loose-limbed and with an expression of contented relaxation now that he satisfied himself in you. 

You give it a bit, then you slowly start inching closer to him, seeking his proximity. You don’t look at him and keep chewing on your lip, keeping your expression conflicted and embarrassed. Once it becomes noticeable that you’re getting closer to him, you notice that he starts to shift in his seat. Glancing at him through your hair, you find him genuinely confused and ever so slightly flushed, both emotions badly hidden under a thin layer of anger. You suspect the anger is a result of his confusion, and whatever is causing the flush. 

“fuck off, i don’t do cuddles,” he suddenly snaps. 

He doesn’t move though. 

And neither does he request that you do. 

His attention stays mostly on the cartoons once you stop moving, but you can tell that he’s still very aware of your presence, especially if you move in a way that might be interpreted as getting even closer to him. Your hands brush against each other once, a careful placement by you in a moment where he was distracted causing the incident. He yanks his hand back as if burned, and then keeps it clutched to his body. As if you wounded him. Then he seems to notice what he’s doing and puts it down again, now tightly clenched into a fist. 

You don’t smile. 

He might see, and that would ruin everything. You have control, and your face remains exactly the way you want it to be, showing nothing but the necessary emotions to keep up the ruse, half hidden behind your hair. 

On the inside though, you’re cheering. 

The test worked.


	5. Tactics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter thanks to a vote on my tumblr.  
> I already announced last time that I might change the title of this fic, and I have decided to go through with it finally. 
> 
> The new title will be "Mind Games." I will make the change in the coming days, so please don't be surprised if it's suddenly called something different. 
> 
> If you want to influence what I write next, be sure to check out [my Tumblr](https://rehlia.tumblr.com/).

The wilderness is silent. 

Green, vibrant, almost obnoxiously bright and flourishing. There is a rustle in the trees and the grass from the wind, and the crunch of your steps, and the crack of branches breaking here and there from you and your companions. You are walking and the others are walking and the monsters are walking.

Silence is poison. 

Under the earth it is not silent. 

That is where it is safe. 

A large cavern filled with monsters. All of them have sharp teeth and smile up at you. All of them have a single golden tooth on the left side, their left, that reflects the dim light. You raise your arms and all the monsters below you cheer for you, reaching upwards to gain a piece of you. You smile. 

You see a face above you, contorted and with an open mouth. Noise filters barely through the haze you’ve built up around yourself. Cheering, clapping, laughter, two people fighting. Nothing you didn’t expect, but nothing important to hear either, since they’re all drunk. You focus on other things, memorising what you can see of the room from your vantage point, planning your next steps. 

The face vanishes, blurs into another and another, before all faces blur into coloured blobs and then into darkness. 

With a sharp breath, your eyes flutter open and the last remnants of your dreams drip from your mind like paint that has been watered down. 

Dreams. 

Hmm.

You exhale, draw a new breath in and hold it deliberately before blowing it out again. Slow and steady, you work to calm yourself. 

Once you’re breathing normally again, you sit up and take a look around. 

The room looks exactly as it did before you went to sleep. 

There’s no clock in here, so you can’t really tell how long it’s been since the beginning of your little nap, but judging from how the sky looks when you look out of the window, you’d guess you slept for about an hour. You’re not sure what Sans’ schedule is like today, so you have no idea how much closer you are to being let out. 

You sigh in frustration. Out of everything that annoys you about being locked in here, this is probably the worst of it. You hate lacking information and control. You hate not knowing when to prepare for his return, when to expect him. You hate not being able to properly portion your alone time into useful chunks; so much for planning, so much for resting, so much for snooping, so much for whatever else you might need. Like so much else, it feels like a real handicap. 

But of course whining about it is of absolutely no use, so you shut that line of thought with all the complaints down quickly. It never pays to focus on that for too long. Instead, you get up from where you have been lying on Sans’ mattress. 

Not your favourite napping spot, actually, despite its relative softness. It’s shabby and old, and smells kind of weird. But that’s the thing. Now you slept on it. You’re not sure how fine Sans’ sense of smell is in comparison to a human. You know dog monsters smell as well as dogs though, so it’s not unreasonable to assume that Sans’ sense of smell is similar to that of a human. And that means that he might just smell you on his mattress, however faintly. He might think it’s his imagination. He might guess that you slept there. 

In any case, it will make him think of you while he’s on his bed, unprepared and vulnerable as he relaxes for sleep. 

Might do nothing, might just have him think of you a bit more, or it might bring his subconsciousness to associate you with relaxation and being open. Not a high chance, but a possibility, and it doesn’t cost you much effort to sleep there on the shabby mattress for a bit, so it’s worth doing. 

You’ve been wearing one of his jackets for the same reason. 

If he catches you doing it, you’ll have your excuses ready. You wanted to sleep because there was so little else to do. The truth, and thus something you’d tell him with your face visible before hiding underneath your hair in fake shyness to continue with your excuses. The jackets are soft and comfortable. There is no other bedding here, so you wrapped yourself in the jackets for warmth and comfort. It’s autumn after all, and you’re only wearing the cheap and therefore thin track pants and shirt he bought for you. 

Maybe that would finally make him buy you some new clothes. 

Cheap fucker. 

For now though, you slip out of the jacket and hang it back over the treadmill where you found it. What else. You begin to pick up some of the empty food wrappers from the floor. There’s no trash can, so you just stack them in one pile next to the wall. You don’t touch anything else of course, not wanting him to think you’d mess with his stuff. But you’ve been thinking about when to introduce making changes to his room under the guise of wanting to clean for him and wanting something to do, so you might as well do it now. It has been long enough for your shy persona to have gathered the courage for it. 

Three day since he took you on the couch and you tested your hypothesis about Sans and his thing with affection. Eleven since he picked you up from the compound. You’ve been here for almost two weeks. 

You snort. It’s a bit embarrassing it took you so long to start figuring out a plan and get down to business. Then again, Sans really didn’t give you much to work with initially since he left you alone so often. Oh well. You’re at it now. 

If this cleaning of his room works, maybe he’ll give you some tools to clean this mess with. His room is filthy and grosses you out more the more time you have to spend in it. From there, you have vague ideas about expanding to being a housemaid for the brothers even if you technically belong to Sans as a pet. You don’t know if Papyrus would allow it - he does let you do some chores, apparently liking to see you being useful, but he’s wary about what he lets you do. Still paranoid about you breaking anything or trying to run. 

Ridiculous. 

The food wrappers are all in one pile now. 

What else? 

There is nothing else. 

You’ve read the science fiction books. You won’t read them again. Sans saw you looking at them one day. He told you that it’s fine if you read them. He also told you that if you damage them, he’d break all your fingers and let the bones grow together crooked. That would be good extortion material for later of course, but not good enough to actually go through with it. Not worth the pain and drawbacks. 

What else, what else? 

You’re not used to this anymore. In the compound, you had even less mental stimulation than you have here. So technically it shouldn’t be difficult to endure this. The thing is though that after so much deprivation, every bit of stimulation you’ve been getting here felt so intense, and that makes the days where Sans leaves you alone up here even harder to bear. You crave something to do, to occupy you. 

Finally, you hear the door click. 

Your head snaps up and you catch Sans walking in. Even though he can displace himself and reappear instantly in another place, he never just pops into the room when he returns from work. He always appears somewhere else in the house and then walks in here. You don’t know why. You want to ask someday. 

Slipping into your persona, you look down to the floor, letting your hair fall forwards. You’ve looked at him for long enough, and besides, you can’t do too much at once. 

“Welcome back,” you mumble before he can say anything, fidgeting where you stand. 

His feet and legs are in your peripheral vision and you can see the subtle tension run over them at your greeting. He doesn’t expect your kind politeness. Not yet. 

He gives you a grunt in acknowledgement but nothing more. 

“what’s that?”

You briefly look up even though you already know what he’s referring to, and follow his line of sight to the food wrappers. 

“I… cleaned them up for you…?” you offer, making your voice a mixture of shy and sweet, clear that you wish to please him. 

“i don’t care ‘bout bein’ as clean as boss,” he tells you. 

That’s not an outright rejection of what you did though. 

“I thought… maybe you’d still like it.” You voice is even more quiet now, uncertain. Insecure that he didn’t praise your efforts. Should you apologise? No, that would be too much. You need to balance your shyness without making you seem like a complete pushover so it won’t be too jarring when you ‘regain’ your confidence as you plan to play it. 

“what’re you playin’ at, huh?” 

He suddenly grabs your chin and yanks your head up, forcing you to look him in the face. Time to get real. 

“I’m… I have nothing to do,” you press out, your heart hammering in your chest. He sees your face. He sees the calculation, the fear, the boredom, the hope for more. You need to give him a reason to see all of these, you need to make him believe your expression makes sense. “I’m alone here the whole day. I sleep a lot but then I’m not tired anymore… and I don’t know what to do. I thought… you said you’d break my fingers if I… I thought this would be better than touching your stuff.”

His eye lights bore into your eyes, and you feel as though you can’t breathe.

“and?” he prompts. 

“And… I hoped maybe if you’d like it you’d let me do it… that you’d make me your maid or something. Just so I could… do something…” 

Your voice grows more and more quiet as you speak until it peters out. No words left, you said your piece. Gave him the explanation for what he might see in your expression. A reason for you to look at him with such calculating eyes, with so much doubt and hope. Now you get to pretend you’re too insecure to go on after saying so much. 

He lets go of you as he looks down at the pile again, apparently satisfied with your explanations. You don’t dare to breathe freely yet though. You’ve been very nice to him since the incident of the couch and he might still be feeling some mistrust at your shift. 

“i’ll think about it,” he finally replies. “now sit down.” 

You obediently sit on the floor and allow Sans to comb his fingers through your hair. You hiss and yelp where appropriate when he yanks too hard, giving him what should be enough of a reaction that he won’t escalate. He hasn’t punched you since he took you three days ago, but he’s still not very gentle with you while he combs your hair. You’re not sure how long the reprieve will last so you’re careful to keep up your facade, to give him enough painful squeaks to hopefully satisfy him. 

Downstairs, you hear the front door open and close. 

“SANS!!”

“up here, boss,” Sans calls out, letting go of your hair. 

“COME DOWN HERE! AND BRING YOUR DISGUSTING CREATURE!”

You immediately freeze, looking up at Sans with real uncertainty from your position on the floor. No hiding of your face this time. He can see the question in your eyes; what does Papyrus want, why does he request for your specifically? He can see the raw terror, the fear. Did you do something wrong? Will Papyrus kill you like he threatened to do if you annoyed him? 

Sans looks back at you with just as much surprise, his eye sockets wide and flickering with emotion. It looks almost comical how he doesn’t seem to be able to decide what to feel, whether he wants to be amused at your terror or worried about your fate. He seems to be feeling more of the latter, ultimately, which you think is a good sign. 

“SANS!!!”

“uh, comin’.” 

Sans yanks you up and pulls you behind him as he walks out of the room and down the stairs. He comes to a halt in front of his brother and doesn’t stop pulling on your arm until you’re standing next to him. No hiding behind Sans this time. 

“yeah, boss?”

Papyrus has his arms crossed in front of him, looking down at the two of you. 

“I HAVE COME TO A DECISION,” he announces, his voice full with self-importance. 

Something begins trembling inside your chest. You hope it’s not visible on the outside. 

“I HAVE DECIDED…” Papyrus pauses, for some reason. Lets the words hang in the air as if this is a game show and he is the announcer. He watches too much Mettaton, clearly. God, you want him to speak already. If he wants to kill you, you’d rather he came out with it and get it over with. 

“I HAVE DECIDED I WILL NO LONGER TOLERATE HUMAN FOOD IN MY HOUSE,” Papyrus finishes his sentence. “THIS DISGUSTING FILTH IS NO LONGER TO MASTICATE THE ROT THEY CONSUME IN MY PRESENCE. NOR IS THIS VERMIN TO SOIL MY PRISTINE BATHROOM ANYMORE. IF SHE IS TO REMAIN HERE, SHE WILL BE FED PROPER MONSTER FOOD.” 

Papyrus stares at his brother, challenging him to disagree. Your eyes are wide, sliding between Papyrus and Sans. 

Seriously? 

This much buildup just to announce that he finds your food and digestion distasteful? 

“aw, but it’s so much fun watching her shi-” 

“DON’T YOU DARE FINISH THAT SENTENCE IN MY PRESENCE,” Papyrus growls. 

“fine, fine, calm down boss. sure. no more human food.”

Papyrus huffs. It’s not completely clear to you if he’s happy or unhappy about his brother’s easy acceptance of this new rule. 

“GOOD. I’M GLAD YOU AGREE.”

“so, uh, does that mean i buy her monster food or will she eat with us now?” Sans asks. 

You find that rather daring of him, given Papyrus’ behaviour towards you. You swallow, hoping it won’t fall back to you. 

“WHAT ON EARTH MAKES YOU THINK I WOULD SHARE MY EFFORTS WITH THIS ABOMINABLE SACK OF MEAT?”

“jus’ askin’. sorry, boss.” 

“TSK.” 

“...can she sit at the table?” 

Papyrus looks as if he’s close to exploding, a feeling that you suddenly and unexpectedly find yourself sharing. You really, really wish Sans would shut his mouth and stop pushing Papyrus’ buttons when it might fall back on you. If he wants to repeat that little dance where Papyrus twists his arm back and screams at him for hours then that’s none of your business, but you’d strongly prefer not having a target painted on your back for Papyrus to aim for. 

“I SUPPOSE IT MIGHT STOP YOU FROM MAKING HER SQUEAK,” Papyrus grumbles, surprising you and, from the looks of it, Sans as well. 

With that, Papyrus turns and walks towards the kitchen, where you soon hear the clatter that announces his making dinner for himself and his brother. 

Sans glances over at you, his grin widening now that Papyrus’ attention isn’t on you two anymore. You look back at him with your eyes still wide, now with disbelief. Did this really just happen? 

You’re really glad you didn’t die. 

Apparently that thought was clear on your face enough for Sans to catch it. He begins to laugh quietly, holding a hand in front of his mouth to hide the sound. You lower your head, the flush that’s spreading on your face real this time. You feel ashamed for how much Papyrus scares you. 

You feel angry that Sans is playing with you like that. 

Good thing your hair is hiding that thought. 

Sans leads you to the table with a nudge against your side. You try not to wince; while he may not have hit you over the past days, there are still older bruises there. 

“sit. stay.” 

You want to strangle him for treating you like a dog, but you don’t. Instead, you obey his orders and take a seat on one of the leather chairs. The one next to where he usually sits. You sharply look up when he suddenly vanishes. He’s gone. You don’t hear him upstairs. 

You’re alone with Papyrus. 

You glance in the direction of the kitchen and see Papyrus staring back at you. 

You quickly look down again and straighten your posture. You make no sound as you sit as prim and proper on your chair as you can. Hearing Papyrus continue with his cooking is a relief. 

It takes only ten minutes for Sans to return, but they feel like the longest ten minutes of your life. He sets a package of food down in front of you, a cheap wooden container with a noodle dish inside under a thin paper lid. It looks like takeout, but unlike anything you’ve ever seen in human stores. A monster product for sure. 

You wait for Sans and Papyrus to sit down with their own food and only eat when they do, peeling the lid back and poking at the food with the fork Sans has given you. The first bite reveals that monster food tastes no different from human food, the only real difference is the prickling, fizzy sensation in your mouth as it dissolves while you swallow it. Weird. 

A small, involuntary sigh escapes you when you feel your sides heat up. The faint throb of your many bruises vanishes suddenly. You grasp your side, pressing your fingers against the flesh there. 

Right. Monster food. 

You heard rumours that it could heal, out in the wilderness before things went to shit and you were cut off from all information. Seems like that is true after all. 

The brothers are both staring at you. 

You draw up your shoulders and curl in on yourself, annoyed that you sighed out loud. That was stupid. Even if the effect surprised you, you should have yourself under control better. Thankfully, neither of them says anything. You glance at them through your hair and find them looking at each other. You have the impression that there’s some sort of silent conversation going on, but it’s over before you can fully figure out what they’re telling each other. 

Frustrating. It’s interesting that they can do this in spite of their obviously strained relationship otherwise, and a little worrying. You need to know more about that. 

There’s still so much to find out. 

You have a plan now, and that means you need all the information you can get in order to make it a reality. 

Sans is weak towards showing affection to him, craving support and attention whether he knows it or not. That’s where you’ll get him. You’ll reel him in and wrap him around your little finger. You know exactly how to do that, you’ve done it before. The ones who crave affection are always the easiest. Easy to supply with love, easier still to break down and bend to your wishes once they’ve become dependent on you. Sans won’t be any different. 

Papyrus though, that will be difficult. 

You have no idea what his deal is and you’re stupidly scared of him, which is a real hindrance. You’ll need to step it up while you work his brother so he won’t surprise you. Ideally, Sans will be easy to isolate from Papyrus, at least emotionally, but you can’t yet predict how Papyrus will react if Sans draws away from him. 

It would be really lovely if you could get Papyrus too. Breaking people who have such a massive stick up their arse as he does is always a special treat. 

Some degree of that might be necessary anyway if you want to achieve your goal. 

You want to integrate yourself enough into their lives that you’ll be safe and powerful again. A family member instead of a slave. A sexual partner, in one case. It wouldn’t do for Papyrus to become a hindrance to that. Your plans account for it of course, but you’ll definitely try to pay more attention to him and work on your fear. After all, you’ve already begun with the first steps, and from now on... 

From now on Sans will learn to _love_ you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phase 1, Approach: Completed


	6. Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start of Phase 2: Establishment
> 
> Thank you for supporting this fic.
> 
> If you want to influence what I write next, check out [my Tumblr](https://rehlia.tumblr.com/).

Sans huffs as he switches the channel. He doesn't seem particularly interested in actually watching TV, but at the same time he appears frustrated that he can't find anything interesting there either. He only turned the thing on to pass the time while you both wait for Papyrus to return. He already combed through your hair and then took you down. You would have thought he'd try something sexual with you again but apparently the thought of his brother returning while the two of you are in the middle of it dampens Sans’ interest. A shame, almost, since you could have easily used that to progress your efforts but you've found a way to make it work for you anyway.

You don't even look at the television. You're watching Sans from underneath your hair, taking in the nervous twitch of his fingers, the uncomfortable shift as he repositions his body on the sofa pillow to find a more comfortable spot. Or rather, that's what it appears like. 

You know that it's something else though. 

It's threatening to make you smile. 

“Always the same shit…” he grumbles underneath his breath. He's not quite directing that statement at you but he also is a little bit. You decide it's a good opportunity to take regardless. 

You giggle. 

A brief, breathless sound, light and cute and one that you bite back before it can fully get out there. It makes Sans flinch a little and he stares over at you with wide eye sockets. 

He definitely noticed that this is the first time you've ever laughed since he met you. The first time you ever showed something like genuine happiness that wasn't marred by his abuses.

“That's… just like before,” you explain, giving your voice a suitably embarrassed tinge. 

“Heh.” 

His laugh is by far not as happy as your brief and stifled one. He sounds tight and uncomfortable. 

That's in many ways a lot more hilarious to you than the fact that no matter what, there's nothing interesting on the television. 

You know why he is like this of course. 

He raped you on this couch. 

Or had sex with you, depending on how you want to classify it. You doubt he sees it that way. You feel ambiguous about it. You want him to have sex with you because you can use it, but have no desire for it apart from that, and you know you can't say no anyway. 

And now he's sitting here with you trying to make small talk. You're not entirely sure if his discomfort is caused by him feeling bad about what he did (possible, but unlikely) or by him remembering the incident and getting off to it while knowing he can't do anything because Papyrus might return any second (much more likely and the theory you're going with). Additionally, you're sure that sitting here reminds him of how sweet you've often been with him since the incident, something that he has obvious trouble categorising. He doesn't know what to do with that, which is of course the point. You need him unsettled and insecure, while also pleased about the affection he finally receives. Regardless of whether he's aware of that last part or not, it's affecting him. 

Very convenient for you. 

“What…” you pause and fidget to create the impression that you're not sure if you can ask him this. “What do you like to watch?” 

You're actually somewhat curious. He only ever seems to watch what Papyrus watches when it's the two of them, and when he's alone he tends to switch channels constantly. 

Since your curiosity is genuine, you dare to look up and let your hair fall back so he can see your face. You have to keep a careful balance between showing it to him so he can read some genuine emotions from it and not get suspicious, and hiding it from him so he won't catch anything that he shouldn't see. 

“Dunno,” he shrugs. He looks surprised at the question and seemingly needs to think it over before he can give you a proper reply. “Comedy, I guess. Sci-fi. Space documentaries.”

Now it's your turn to be surprised. That's different from what you would have expected from him. Not that you exactly expected him to only watch terrible things. But his reply still seems surprisingly mundane, even tame in comparison to what he watches with his brother. 

“What!” He bristles, as if caught doing something wrong. Maybe he feels he has. Interesting, but it makes sense based on what you've learned so far. Softness is clearly not tolerated in monster society, even for something as mundane as entertainment choices. You file the information away for later. 

“Nothing.” You look back down, but not so far that your hair would be falling over your face again. This another truth, and so another thing you can let him see “That sounds nice. I like documentaries too.” 

If anything, Sans looks even more uncomfortable at your admission. 

You finally let your hair conceal your face once more. He's uncomfortable with knowing these random facts about you. Being reminded that you’re a person with your own personality and preferences, instead of just a toy to play with and break. You really enjoy seeing him squirm over it, and then try to hide it. 

“M-maybe…” you stutter out, drawing your shoulders up to look even more shy and insecure than hiding your face already does. “Maybe we could watch some together…”

Through your hair, you can see Sans’ fist clench just the slightest bit. His body looks tense. 

“Sure, why not.” 

His reply is casual in spite of how tightly he’s holding himself. You notice the slightest flush of magic on his bones, and a hint of irritation on his brow bones. Arousal, mixed with anger about it. He likes that you seek out his company, it affects him that you’re doing so on the couch where he fucked you, and he’s mad that he can’t take you right here and now because you’re still both waiting for Papyrus to return. 

You sneak your hand over, trying to bring it closer to his while he's looking away at the screen again. His peripheral vision must be just as good as yours though, because he immediately removes his own hand, using it to switch channels again. He keeps zapping for a couple of seconds before settling on a monster teleshopping channel. 

“What's takin’ him so long anyway…” he grumbles. 

This was definitely not directed at you. But you really enjoy unsettling him with your politeness and reminding him of your presence is part of your plan anyway so you use the opportunity to reply. 

“It could be the bus being late.” You modulate your voice to sound a little stronger, more careless, as if the sentence slipped out without thinking. Only then do you cringe and curl up again to demonstrate your shyness. 

Sans merely grunts. 

For a moment, that's all you get. 

Then...

“That happen often up here before?” He sounds curious even though he tries to suppress it. It simply slips through. 

“Uhm… yeah. At least often enough that people joked about it,” you explain quietly. 

“What kinda jokes?” 

Of course he would want to know that. 

“Oh, uhm… like for example, if someone was worried about arriving somewhere an hour too early, people would tell them to take the bus because then they'd definitely be on time,” you mumble. 

“Lame,” Sans immediately says, even though you hear him snort. 

“I guess…”

There's another moment of silence between you, although it's a calmer one than before. Some of the tension between you as left. Not all of it. 

On the television, the advertisement for a magical kitchen device ends and instead, a monster is praising the benefits of a new type of leash. 

Sans stares at the thing with a hungry expression, his sockets wide and lustful. Never mind that about the tension lessening.

A chance.

You _have_ to take it. 

You move your head up and look at him fully, without the curtain of your hair obscuring your face. He soon notices you staring at him and turns to you. Questioning, challenging, aggressive, still lustful and hungry. 

“Do… do you really want that on me?” you ask him, your voice barely a whisper. 

“So what if I do, huh?” The growl underlying is words is rough. 

“It's just. I won't run. You know I won't run, right?” 

And that's the truth. Nothing but the truth, a collar and leash aren't necessary. You know that. He knows it too. 

“You know I ain't interested in it for that reason,” he points out, having read that clear on your face. 

You look over at the screen again, biting your lip, thinking. Yes, of course you know. You lower your head and let your hair obscure your features again, although now you don't draw your shoulders up or anything like that. You let your body go slack instead. Defeated. 

“I see,” you murmur. 

Of course you knew. That wasn't the point of your naive little question though. He now had the opportunity to see a blatant lie next to a truth on your face, had the opportunity to see you deny a truth and hide your knowledge of it - because it was one that scared you and made you uncomfortable. A good reason. An understandable reason. 

His ability to read you is too inconvenient for what you're doing. You have to destroy it. You have to destroy his ability to believe what he sees. 

This was a first small step towards that goal. 

A good one, you think. It was a good opportunity and you think you played it well. You'll have to ramp it up in the future of course, keep looking for similar opportunities and try to escalate it to more extreme cases, but for now this was good. Sans looks uncomfortable again at your reaction. 

“Don't gimme that shit,” he snaps at you. 

“I'm sorry.” Your flinch is real. Did he notice something?

“Don't be like… you don't gotta… “ he breaks off and growls instead, a full-throated, wolf-like thing that starts in his ribcage and resonates all the way over to your spot on the couch. 

“I'm sorry,” you repeat, curling up further. No, he didn't notice anything. He's aroused and frustrated and uncomfortable, that's all. 

“Why do ya gotta be like this, hm?” he questions. 

He's actually waiting for you to answer that, to your surprise. 

“I. It's that you… “ you take a deep breath. You can't lie with your expression, not about this, so instead you wrap your hands around your elbows, hugging yourself as if you're desperate for comfort and a kind touch. “You were… you didn't hurt me. Here. When we… when you… I thought that maybe it wouldn't hurt anymore. From now on.” 

You know it wouldn't be a good idea to name his abuse of you directly, the punches and kicks and pulling your hair, or the one time he choked you with that necklace. It would be too obvious what you're doing. But talking around it, refrain the conversation in a sexual and emotional way after how much you tried to sick up to him, that is okay. Let him come to his own conclusions. 

“I ain't some sort of vanilla fairy tale prince, capiche?” 

It's not a confirmation or denial of what you said. It's his own way of avoiding the underlying issue; that he was gentler than he wants to present himself to be. You're reasonably sure by now that his brutality is learned. There's still a few variables you want to figure out first before you fully accept that as the truth, but everything is hinting at it. 

He may hurt you in so many ways - but he doesn't torture you. He has lines he doesn't cross - he hurts but doesn't torture, even though he could. You're his property and if he wanted to, he could take you apart with no consequence and buy a new slave to fill the gap. Nobody would care, because that's his right as your owner. Granted, the slaughter of healthy slaves without radiation sickness or other issues is frowned upon from what you gather - but it's still not forbidden. 

And yet, Sans holds back. 

His actions are not the result of an inborn drive to make others suffer. At his very core, he isn’t inherently cruel. Instead it’s something he has been raised into, that he has adapted as a part of him because of necessity. Something that his circumstances had him develop.

For most people it probably wouldn't make much of a difference. He still abused you after all, beating and kicking you. He still raped you on this very couch. His actions are still very much a part of who he is as a person, have become an automatic part of his current personality.

For you though? I makes a huge difference. 

Psychopaths are harder to control. 

“I understand,” you tell Sans in a whisper. 

“Good,” he grumbles. “C’mere now.”

It seems as if he changed his opinion on not doing anything while waiting for his brother, because he pulls you over to him before you can even react. He forces you onto his lap, shoving his hands underneath your shirt to grab roughly at your breasts. The tension that has hovered over your entire interaction breaks, and you feel his erection after barely a moment of him touching you. He grunts and presses his face against your neck, into your hair, where he takes a deep breath that ends in a rough moan. He's already bucking up against your butt. 

Since he can't see you from his current position, you allow yourself to briefly roll your eyes. 

Playing the tough sadomaso freak with the thing for leashes and then when he takes you all he does is sniff your hair and hump you. This guy is so full of bullshit. Not that you mind, you prefer it the easy way. But it’s still pretty ridiculous.

A moment of stillness on your side is vital, but then you reach out to him hesitantly. 

Your carefully, slowly stroke your hands over his skull and shoulder, until you reach the point where the skull meets the spine. The gap there feels interesting so you linger there for a bit, tracing it with the tips of your fingers. It's not like you have any idea what you're doing but honestly that just helps the illusion you're trying to create. It seems you're doing something right though because the pitch of his moan changes, getting slightly higher and softer. Quieter too. It sounds more honest and open, more vulnerable almost. 

Got it on the first try then. Just like old times. 

That's a thought you quickly push aside, focusing instead on your surprise that it worked when he pulls back and looks at you. 

“What are you doing?” he pants. 

“I, uhm, I thought you wanted to feel good?” you try. 

Heavy breathing. What is he thinking? Is he confused, calculating, even more aroused? This is actually difficult to tell, even though he’s looking at you. You show your own confusion too. He can see that you’re wondering what he’s thinking. That’s a legit thing to wonder in your current situation. 

His hand presses against your hip, pushing you down against his cock while he’s grinding up against you. 

“You - “ he begins. 

The sound of the keys at the front door. 

All of a sudden, you fall a couple of centimetres onto the couch. It’s not a lot, but it’s sudden and surprising enough that it knocks the breath right out of you. Sans took a shortcut, but one without you. While you catch yourself and try to get your bearings, Papyrus enters the room. You find him already staring at you by the time you manage to look up. 

His expression is an angry squint at you. 

Clearly struggling between his absolute refusal to directly engage with you and his desire to scold you for being alone here. You wonder if you should say something to take the decision away from him, but you quickly crush that thought. He’s way too dominant to be okay with that and you don’t want to be punished by him. You wait for him to make the first move instead.

“SANS! WHY IS YOUR FILTHY VERMIN SITTING ON MY COUCH BY ITSELF!” he screams into the house. 

You glance up at the gallery, the bathroom door and the door to Sans’ bedroom, wondering behind which one he’s currently whacking it so his brother won’t see him with a hard on. That’s definitely not something Papyrus wants to know about, you don’t think. You have to suppress a smile at that. It’s pretty funny all things considered. 

“SANS!!!”

Despite your amusement, you’re glad when Sans emerges from his room, looking sweaty and out of breath, but otherwise not very different from usual. He even has an excuse ready, something about quickly fetching something and it’s _fine_ if he lets you sit there by yourself for a few seconds, if you wanted to do something you’d have done it already. 

It evolves into an argument of proper slave etiquette and how much danger you pose, but it’s not one that has a lot of conviction or true anger behind it. Irritation at best. 

You lean back, try to look innocent, and count today as a huge success.


End file.
